Veteran bail bondsman often played 'hide, seek'

Bail bondsman Howard Frank, who has been in business for 43 years, is shown Friday in front of his Daytona Beach office. For 43 years, Frank has been bailing people out of jail and chasing down the ones who skipped out of town after he did.

For 43 years, Frank has been bailing people out of jail and chasing down the ones who skipped out of town after he did. Now relegated to office duties — mainly due to his age — Frank still mans the phone, waiting for a call at A First Florida Bail Bonds, 244 N. Ridgewood Ave., from someone in need of help.

Raised in a Jewish home in Lower Manhattan where he would later become a trucker, Frank came to Daytona Beach to visit his sister.

"It was so beautiful," said Frank, who also served in the U.S. Navy.

Frank stayed in Daytona Beach, however, he couldn't find work to which he had been accustomed. He went into the insurance business and then became a private investigator, where he would befriend many people in the judicial system. That led him later to start his own bail bond company in 1969 — the only one in Volusia County at the time.

"You usually don't find a Jewish bail bondsman," he said with a chuckle.

While it started out as a small operation, Frank's business quickly grew, mostly because of his tenacity, others say.

"He was a bad bounty hunter," said Sharon Guy, who along with her husband, Bob Barry, has run a bail bond company for 34 years. "He was a bondman's bondsman."

Former constable Harvey Altes had another adjective to describe Frank.

"Intense," he said.

Frank, who now lives in Ormond Beach, recalled one of the first people he tracked down, costing him more money than the bond was worth.

A Holly Hill woman had been arrested by police for dealing in stolen property and had a $4,500 bond. The customary cost is 10 percent of the bond as collateral — $450 in this case — but the woman convinced Frank she would give him the money the next day. Frank admittedly thought she was a low-risk as she owned her own home, where she lived with her four children and grandmother.

When she failed to appear in court, Frank went to her home. It was empty. It took him two trips to the Northeast to finally capture her. Frank didn't lose his $4,500 bond, but it cost him $2,000 to keep it.

"I did it to prove a point: that nobody was going to get away," he said. "The word gets around that you're going to look for them." (The woman was later let go by a judge and fled again.)

He tracked a woman for one summer through Kentucky from Louisville to Lexington and back again. Dripping with sweat from the heat of the day, Frank walked into a drugstore to get a Coca-Cola said a little prayer as he left.

"I'm not a religious man," Frank said. "I walked out the door and I swear to God there she was walking down the street. She said she needed to go home and get a change of clothes and I said: 'You're not going anywhere.' "

Other cross-country chases also cost him quite a bit of money and nearly more. One man who had fled near Maine tried to jump out of a window in an escape attempt while another man, armed with a gun, was waiting underneath a bed.

"Luckily, I didn't have too many close calls," Frank said.

Some hid in the darnedest places — most notably the shower and one managed to fit underneath a sink. Frank said he also learned which were the toughest to catch.

"Women were the worst," he said. "One of them kicked out the windshield of my car."

As time went on, things changed.

Volusia's justice system was reformed. More bail bond companies popped up. The business became less profitable.

But Frank has continued to be a cornerstone in the field.

"My golf game is so bad I knew I had to come back to work," he joked.

While some bail bondsmen went about their business in a ripped-up T-shirt and jeans — such as television's Dog the Bounty Hunter — Frank has always worn his Sunday best.

"He was always trying to change the image of a bondsman," said Bob Barry.

Looking back on his career, Frank believes he made a difference.

"I made a good living," he said. "It feels good when a doctor's wife has a boy in trouble and I can help."

<p>DAYTONA BEACH &mdash; If ever a Volusia County suspect skipped bail, it's likely a man in a coat and tie, armed with two guns and handcuffs, was hot on his or her trail. </p><p>"I've caught my share," said 87-year-old Howard Frank. "I stayed at it no matter how much money it cost until we got 'em." </p><p>Frank is no cop or FBI agent. He's Volusia County's longest-serving bail bondsman. </p><p>For 43 years, Frank has been bailing people out of jail and chasing down the ones who skipped out of town after he did. Now relegated to office duties &mdash; mainly due to his age &mdash; Frank still mans the phone, waiting for a call at A First Florida Bail Bonds, 244 N. Ridgewood Ave., from someone in need of help. </p><p>Raised in a Jewish home in Lower Manhattan where he would later become a trucker, Frank came to Daytona Beach to visit his sister. </p><p>"It was so beautiful," said Frank, who also served in the U.S. Navy. </p><p>Frank stayed in Daytona Beach, however, he couldn't find work to which he had been accustomed. He went into the insurance business and then became a private investigator, where he would befriend many people in the judicial system. That led him later to start his own bail bond company in 1969 &mdash; the only one in Volusia County at the time. </p><p>"You usually don't find a Jewish bail bondsman," he said with a chuckle. </p><p>While it started out as a small operation, Frank's business quickly grew, mostly because of his tenacity, others say. </p><p>"He was a bad bounty hunter," said Sharon Guy, who along with her husband, Bob Barry, has run a bail bond company for 34 years. "He was a bondman's bondsman." </p><p>Former constable Harvey Altes had another adjective to describe Frank. </p><p>"Intense," he said. </p><p>Frank, who now lives in Ormond Beach, recalled one of the first people he tracked down, costing him more money than the bond was worth.</p><p>A Holly Hill woman had been arrested by police for dealing in stolen property and had a $4,500 bond. The customary cost is 10 percent of the bond as collateral &mdash; $450 in this case &mdash; but the woman convinced Frank she would give him the money the next day. Frank admittedly thought she was a low-risk as she owned her own home, where she lived with her four children and grandmother. </p><p>When she failed to appear in court, Frank went to her home. It was empty. It took him two trips to the Northeast to finally capture her. Frank didn't lose his $4,500 bond, but it cost him $2,000 to keep it. </p><p>"I did it to prove a point: that nobody was going to get away," he said. "The word gets around that you're going to look for them." (The woman was later let go by a judge and fled again.) </p><p>He tracked a woman for one summer through Kentucky from Louisville to Lexington and back again. Dripping with sweat from the heat of the day, Frank walked into a drugstore to get a Coca-Cola said a little prayer as he left. </p><p>"I'm not a religious man," Frank said. "I walked out the door and I swear to God there she was walking down the street. She said she needed to go home and get a change of clothes and I said: 'You're not going anywhere.' " </p><p>Other cross-country chases also cost him quite a bit of money and nearly more. One man who had fled near Maine tried to jump out of a window in an escape attempt while another man, armed with a gun, was waiting underneath a bed. </p><p>"Luckily, I didn't have too many close calls," Frank said. </p><p>Some hid in the darnedest places &mdash; most notably the shower and one managed to fit underneath a sink. Frank said he also learned which were the toughest to catch. </p><p>"Women were the worst," he said. "One of them kicked out the windshield of my car." </p><p>As time went on, things changed. </p><p>Volusia's justice system was reformed. More bail bond companies popped up. The business became less profitable. </p><p>But Frank has continued to be a cornerstone in the field. </p><p>"My golf game is so bad I knew I had to come back to work," he joked. </p><p>While some bail bondsmen went about their business in a ripped-up T-shirt and jeans &mdash; such as television's Dog the Bounty Hunter &mdash; Frank has always worn his Sunday best. </p><p>"He was always trying to change the image of a bondsman," said Bob Barry. </p><p>Looking back on his career, Frank believes he made a difference. </p><p>"I made a good living," he said. "It feels good when a doctor's wife has a boy in trouble and I can help."</p>